Introduction to Layers
by Misty Masquerade
Summary: Alright: As some of you might have noticed I have a very-telling lesbian theme throughout my work. Of course this theme will be relayed throughout. I am severely attracted to Jessica Lange -HA- and her desirable talents in the AHS TV Show. Here I've invented my own presence, led to encounter her in several instances. Please beware: this will have 'taboo' themes too. Enjoy :)


_

The Harmons were just another addition to the mural; another layer, another detail that stretched over the walls. Years passed, presences stayed. They didn't always make themselves known, they rose when they saw fit individually; when curiosity and the sound of fresh blood shook them awake - dusted the dust off their stiff bodies so that they'd look immaculately-alive when they explored the halls, following the aroma of fresh breath within.  
It was often mistaken that they were wandering strangers who'd slipped through an open back door, and so in these instances, introductions were vital; it was common courtesy. And those who didn't care to identify themselves, hung back until the opportunity to announce their dislike arose. They weren't just ghosts, they were the valid occupants of this house. Sometimes they didn't even know they were dead. In between restless explorations around the house, they found themselves locked in motionless dreams until someone opened the door with a sharp creak, snapped them back to the present.

The house, without doubt, harboured a vastly-extensive history and was home to many spirits who couldn't yet -even after decades- find it in their souls to cross over, and leave the beautiful mansion they'd once occupied behind. As far as they were concerned, the house was theirs - even after death. It was hard to let go, despite the many families after them who made themselves right at home where they shouldn't; they were, in fact, just another layer. Insignificant. Dead or alive, faces upon faces both sad and happy, they were the scaffolding of said 'character' the housing advertisements boasted to aspiring buyers.

_

"I'm obligated to announce that this house has... well, the previous owners died in this very room." The realtor agent gestured dramatically around the mahogany-lined walls, and managed an awkward smile. "A heart-wrenching tragedy between mother and daughter...it's just so sad."

"Is that so?" Mrs Vivian Harmon said, quirking a brow and slipping her husband, Ben, a sideways glance. He hadn't mentioned _that_ as he had boasted about the several features of this house, claiming that it was a deal to _die for_. "What happened, were they...murdered or something?"

Ben guiltily pressed his lips together, and focused his icy-blue gaze on the housing agent who was slowly gathering her hands in front of her, like a doctor preparing to deliver bad news. "That's a shame," he joked, aiming to lighten up the mood around them. "I was thinking that this room would make a nice office for my patients and I." Vivian tiredly shook her head, and shrugged.

For Violet, their teenage daughter, that was more than confirmation of their decision to settle here. Concealing a smile she folded her arms, and fearlessly crossed the oriental rug stretching over the glossy floor. "Yeah," she intervened, shooting her mother a hopeful look. "What happened?" Unlike her parents, she was anxiously excited with the idea of living somewhere where someone died. She was drawn to the darkness, even more-so to the gory details behind the event. From the moment she'd taken her first step onto the flawless wooden floor, she'd instantly fallen in love with the house. Now she loved it even more. Without question it was the most beautifully-characteristic home they'd visited this week, and quite something compared to the office-like apartments her mother had taken an ugly liking to. _Ergh_.

The agent sighed with a weak smile. "It was a murder-suicide actually," she said, melancholy creeping into her tone. "The mother was suffering from manic depression and voices, and could no longer bear the pressure of mothering a daughter on her own on top of it. They say she was even jealous of her beauty. Then one night she just snapped completely... she slit her daughter's throat while she was bathing, then climbed in with her and eventually killed herself, too. According to the coroner, the girl had been dead for quite a while before the mother slit her own throat."

"Holy shit!" Violet gasped excitedly. Her eyes lit up as she felt a feverish chill sweep through her spine. "No way, that's fucking brutal."

"Oh my God," Vivian whispered, drawing a hand up to her paled neck and glancing nervously at Ben. "Honey... I don't think..."

"Wow," Ben said, his brows raised, as he blinked and took a step back. "I, uh... wasn't expecting that. I'd read somewhere about a tragic event taking place in this house, but it never went into detail."

"Holy shit," Violet repeated with exhilaration, earning a cross look from her mother. The chill danced over to her arms, drawing her closer to the window where the sun had gathered in a warm pool.

"I sincerely hope that this doesn't affect your interest in the house," the agent said slowly, dragging her words out carefully as her gaze swept in between theirs. "Despite what happened here, there are many benefits to this place. You'd be getting it at $200,000 less than a house half the size. If you ask me, that's a pretty good buy."

"And now we know why..." Vivian murmured, pulling away from Ben's side and edging towards the door.

Across the room, standing at an opposite window, a beautiful woman was tracing the net curtains with a delicate hand. As soon as she sensed Violet's stare, she turned and stared blankly right into her eyes. The 'woman' was in fact a girl, and looked no older than twenty. She had one blue eye, one brown, and was wearing a black lace dress that dragged behind her across the floor like a shadow. Her dark hair was tied into a glossy bun atop her head, and several strands had escaped the tight hold; spilling black ribbons over her face and neck. Her doll-like features were so strikingly alluring that Violet's breath caught in her throat, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy towards the girl.

"Get out," the splendorous girl whispered to Violet, breaking the ice between them with a cold growl, and then the sun filled the room with a screaming glare. Violet gasped and covered her eyes with one arm, and when she pulled away there was no one there. Glancing frantically around the room, she saw that the woman had vanished as quickly as a passing thought. She swallowed shakily. Surely not...  
Slowly, her sight and surroundings returned to her in black splotches. The realtor's voice was a smudge in the background, blending into the room like the sleepy rays stretching over the floor, seemingly reaching out to Violet's feet to drag her down. Violet drew in her breath, dodged them and joined her father at his side.  
Ben smiled, wrapping an arm tightly around his daughter's shoulders. For once, she was grateful for his paternal clinginess. The chill wouldn't subside, and so she leaned into his woolen coat.

"Uh," she began nervously, meeting the agent's eyes. "This is an open-home, right?"

"Yes," the agent answered, leading them out of the room and down the foggy hallway to continue the tour. "But you three were the only ones to show up. I'd call that a sign, wouldn't you?"

Constance Langdon was pacing quietly through the backyard of the Murder House. _Her_ house, as it had once been.  
It still was. Now she was trying to sneak a peek at the newcomers, a daughter and two parents she believed, and how unsettled and agitated she became; watching them through a polished window, prodding the surfaces, disturbing the peaceful surroundings of her home. Soon the others would arise, too in irritation at the sticky hands and shoes dirtying its serenity. Another family, another set of faces in the painting... She shook her head, and took a drag of her cigarette. She blew the smoke up at the sky, keeping her careful gaze trained on the figures through the pane.  
Watching the housing agent - the same bitch who had sold the house at least ten times to ten different families - she felt a wave of hatred icing her classic features.  
What lies were she cooking up this time? What truth? It had been less than three years since that sickly mother had killed herself and her daughter, and so she was legally-bound to spilling the beans. But she would only tell the story-book version, the one that made the house look and sound like the tourist attraction it was.

Yes; she had seen the tour bus from her kitchen window, frequently occupying the kerb and full of nosy people with faces full of binoculars and a curiosity for darkness they could never comprehend. Constance licked her lips, taking a final puff from her smoke and tossing it to the brick path surrounding the garden. She crushed the butt forcefully beneath the toe of her stiletto heal, and for a nanosecond the violent gesture seemed to calm her as the unburned tobacco bled out over the brick in fluffy-brown spatter. She exhaled the smoke from the corner of her lips, ducking her chin before meeting the back door. It was locked. She knew without trying the knob, and she folded her bare arms over her chest.

She caught her still reflection in the glass. The blue and black patterned dress she was wearing fluttered in the light breeze around her knees, boasting her well-toned shins. At the top, in a modest vee, it exposed the tease of a small cleavage line. With her platinum-blonde hair pinned up neatly in luscious curls and subtle mascara bordering her sultry eyes, she had dressed magnificently (and as per usual) for the event of her introduction.

Her job was to uncover the bare truth in its glorious nudity, for all the world to see. The dutiful mother in Constance had remained loyal to this task for years, for the sake of maintaining and protecting the authenticity of past events. It was an insult to narrate any lesser than the facts themselves, to clothe them in pretty colours and conceal the beauty of their nature.  
Because of this (and on behalf of the other occupants), she was also in charge of announcing the sweet-neighbourly-impression on her own to every newcomer; even though most of the time she ached to end their lives in the foyer instead, before they tracked their dirty feet a single step further into her house. The last time she'd killed in that house, the bitch had stayed behind right after death and to this day - taunting Constance, but with the reassurance that she was one hell of a good shot with a gun. The bullet had sailed perfectly, right through the maid's right eye and exploding through the back of her head.

She'd even baked a cake for the occasion; and reaching back to rescue it from the outdoor table, a small choke caught in her throat.  
Baking was one of the many rituals she had indulged in with her daughter, Adelaide... when she was still alive. They'd baked religiously back then, those happy and lighthearted days when her life seemed to hold more of a purpose than it did when she wasn't being a mother. So what was she now? It was too late for her to conceive ever again and Tate was no longer with her, for he refused to fill the role of the perfect son she'd always believed him to be. Even after what he did, she loved him unconditionally. When he wasn't in the house, he was dreaming of other places and no more than a memory envisioned in a frame atop her mantelpiece.

She sighed heavily. She didn't want to become just another wandering presence, _like them_ , hanging back for some sort of reason to justify her restless existence. She knew she was grasping at straws most of the time, for time itself was no longer, and each day she ached for and anticipated the day when Adelaide's spirit would return to her. And when that day came, she would find her way once more.  
Balancing the plate in the crook of her arm, she raised her free hand to knock on the door. Before her knuckles could meet the glass, the lock clicked inside its latch, and the door creaked open with an eerie squeal.

"Well look who decided to show her face to the _new owners_ ," Moira greeted her, her voice dripping with satirical boredom. Her right eye -sensitive to light- squinted as she sneered at Constance through the doorway. "And you even brought a cake sweeter than _you'll_ ever be. What did you poison it with this time?"

"Speaking of, we all know why _you're_ here, and it's not to vacuum _floors_." Constance retorted, swiftly pushing past the elderly maid and into the kitchen. She set the plate neatly upon the marble bench top, and leaned against the edge. "Lord knows it's been a while for you. Have _you_ poisoned the husband yet, with your blinding talent for sucking cock? Tell me, did you at least wait for the wife to leave the house?"

"Shut your venomous mouth," Moira hissed, shutting the door forcefully and striding into the kitchen.

Constance smiled. She often got a kick out of triggering the old bat; unlike the bitch of a useless maid, it never grew old. "Well it's nice to see you too," she said, chirpily concluding their encounter. " _Is_ the wife home? I'd like to finally meet her, and the new family."

"I'll go and get them," Moira answered sulkily, and left the kitchen. Once upon a time she had worked for Constance, and although that was no more, something obligated her to continue under her instruction. As though her voluminous blonde curls served for a crown everywhere she went... and how she hated that woman and her power.

Within minutes the kitchen darkened, and a young woman with skin the same complexion as smooth caramel, swept into the room with an effortless stride. As soon as she saw Constance standing at the corner of the bench, her solemn features lifted up with the promise of a spark. "It's you," she whispered, her voice barely reaching a pitch.  
Constance refreshed her smile before turning to greet the voice of the girl, and then her grin faded with unfamiliarity. This was not the young lady she had seen earlier entering the house with her parents. In fact, she had never seen this young lady before in her life.

She would have remembered... for this was the most luxuriant beauty that Constance had seen for a very long time. The girl had such a bewitching and alluring glow about her magnetic face, that for the first time in the presence of another female, Constance was stunned beyond words to even speak. The girl's lips, full and as glossy as fresh blood, were ajar with the thrill of Constance's presence.

"It's you," she said again, and she swayed on her feet; twirling the black lace of her dress around her ankles. Slowly she began an angelic stride towards Constance, who was finally gathering herself enough to speak.

Once more, Constance felt the security of her own charisma returning to fill her prominent cheekbones with a subtle blush as she extended her hand. "Have we met, honey?" she asked sweetly. Her devilish grin had found its way back home, and now she felt more confident than she had seconds earlier.

The girl looked down at Constance's hand with a look of confusion, and then back up at her. She didn't accept the shake, and so Constance withdrew her hand with an awkward 'ahem', instead reaching into her purse for a cigarette. She lit it, and then blew a cloud of smoke into the air above the sink.

The girl's eyes rose to admire the poisonous mist, and it was then that Constance only just noticed the dazzling difference in their colours; one blue -almost white- and the other a stunning hazelnut brown. She licked her lips as a strange wave of _something_ passed through her chest, tilted her chin up. "What's your name?" she asked the girl. "Are you one of the daughters?"

The girl came closer until there was a mere few inches between the both of them. Constance shifted nervously, her eyes dropping over the intricate lacy detail of her dress. "My name is Alpris," the girl said softly, breaking the brooding silence. She frowned slightly, and reached up to scratch her neck. "I don't remember..."

Constance drew another drag from her cigarette, and blew the smoke behind her. All the while she kept her gaze on the girl; there was something unnerving about her seemingly-dejected nature. "Remember what, sweetie?"

Alpris' eyes rose lazily to meet Constance's. They were brimming with a faraway melancholy, rimmed with a sort of grievance that Constance had seen in her own reflection before Adelaide's funeral. The despondency was so heavy between them, that she had to take another drag to distract herself. When silence stretched into what seemed like forever, Constance reached forward and lifted the girl's chin between her thumb and forefinger.  
She'd never known such a sadness to exist in one space at once, and a large piece of her felt aspired to comfort the mysterious angel in her kitchen. Alpris had cool skin, but it seemed to glow with a newfound warmth upon the contact of Constance. At this first touch, the shadow embodying the kitchen seemed to lift away with the sun's exhale.

"Come on dear," Constance urged, her hand moving to cup Alpris' cheek. "Come now, there's no need for all this misery. We all have a darkness, but it can't exist without light."

Alpris managed a weak smile. She took a brief few seconds to nudge her cheek into the comforting cup of Constance's hand, and even reached up to hold her hand more firmly against her. The iciness that once existed in the room was no more than a feeble tingle, and Constance was filled with such a great warmth that she found herself taking a step forward to hold Alpris' face with her other hand.

"What is it that you don't remember, my angel?" Constance whispered, gazing into the ghostly eeriness of the girl's vacant eyes.

"How I died," she replied, her saddening smile widening. "But it's okay... you're here. To protect me." 


End file.
